


Stop, Look & Listen

by LadyLoquacity



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Exhibitionism, Hand Jobs, M/M, Voice Kink, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-16
Updated: 2012-07-16
Packaged: 2017-11-10 02:28:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/461255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLoquacity/pseuds/LadyLoquacity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock likes to be watched, but John just can't keep his hands to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stop, Look & Listen

By the time Sherlock can quite rouse himself from the semi-sleep he's managed to sink into on the bed, John has already left for work. There's a cup of tea sitting on the table, the slight film lingering over the top of it telling him it's cold enough to want tipping straight down the sink. He doesn't, he leaves it there, and moves to sit on the end of the sofa. The room is quiet, the street, too, is (unusually) quiet, and he can't even hear Mrs Hudson clanging around downstairs. His head, on the other hand, is full of more hustle and bustle than Piccadilly fucking Circus. He's not entirely certain how long he's been sitting there, but the ticking of the clock on the wall acts like a metronome to the thoughts hammering and ricocheting off his skull, and whilst it seems like it might have been ten minutes, it could well have been ten hours. 

Eventually there's a chill over his skin, settling just under it and beginning to move through his blood stream, enough for him to crawl out of his brain and notice, and he reaches for his dressing gown. Just as he's about to slip it over his t-shirt, he spots that next to it lies one of John's jumpers. It's draped over the back of the settee, looking calm and practical even in it's disarray, just like John, and much more inviting than the chilled silk of his own dressing gown. When he pulls the wool over his head, the scent which welcomes him is enough to drive every other mangled thought away. Cinnamon, tea, and one of his own botched chemical experiments lingers in his nostrils and it is John. There is something desperately arousing, which irritates him really because he should be above that sort of thing. The tightness in his pyjama bottoms, however, is a testament to the fact he is not, and he can't help but put his palm flat against his crotch, pushing his hips up and hissing what could easily be either arousal or annoyance. Just as he's deciding what it is he wants to do, the front door shuts downstairs and the sounds of Mrs Hudson and John talking can be heard, wafting up the stairs and through the gap at the bottom of the badly hung door to 221b. A smile tugs hard at one side of his mouth and, without thinking anything further, he pries the elasticated waist of his bottoms just far enough to sneak a hand in. 

They are still talking, do they ever stop once they get started? And Sherlock is beginning to worry that John will never make his way up the stairs, until he hears a slight creak. He's on the fifth step then and, presumably, trying to get away. If he ends up going in to her flat for a cup of tea Sherlock thinks he might not be above physical violence, even if it is to one of his own. But no, the tenth step creaks now, and Sherlock can't quite suppress the moan that startles itself from his throat without him having any say in the matter at all.

Abruptly, the footsteps stop. If he listens hard enough, Sherlock is pretty sure he could hear John's forehead resting on the front door, just below the bare patch of wood where the paint has flaked off. But he doesn't, because the roaring in his ears has started up, his hand flexing around his penis and his eyes dropping shut as his feet flatten on the leather of the settee, giving him the purchase to thrust his hips further up. A gust of cool air moves in slow motion over his exposed ankles and he opens his eyes, craning his head slightly to see John standing next to the now open doorway. Silently (well presumably not silently, but Sherlock is wrecked and can't hear anything, not even himself) John shuts the door and dumps his jacket on the ground, but he doesn't move. He continues to watch as each thread of Sherlock snaps, like strings giving way on his violin. When John starts to move the zip of his jeans down, Sherlock can't look any more. The wet patch on the front of his pyjama bottoms is sticking somewhat to the back of his hand, so he yanks them down, precome writing an obscene line in the air between the head of his erection and the material at his thighs. Footsteps. A hand on his arm as John kneels next to the settee, his head bent towards Sherlock's ear. 

“I know you like it when I watch.” Sherlock growls his agreement. “But I have got to fucking touch you, Sherlock, because look at you.” 

Sherlock does not reply, but he knows John will be pushing his own clothes out of the way by now. There's a sudden dip in the settee between Sherlock's legs and it forces him to open his eyes. John is kneeling up, one foot still on the floor for balance, and he continues to watch Sherlock in earnest, taking in the red blotches on his cheeks and neck, and the involuntary motion of his hips forcing him to fuck his own fist. For a split second John looks as if he's going to come there and then, before he snaps back to himself and moves so that his knee can force Sherlock's thighs apart. He stops touching himself to focus his energies on Sherlock's body, knowing full well that it won't take long. Sherlock is forced to bite down on his fist when he feels John's spit slicked finger stroke slightly over his anus, stopping all his movements for long enough to halt the rushing sensation in his head telling him he's going to come. As John's finger slides in, the world comes crashing back around his ears and he can suddenly hear and see everything in detail magnified times ten. His hips buck, his hand spasms against his cock and John's finger finds his prostate all at once. It is too much, not enough, silent and deafeningly loud all the same time, maybe as he imagines being inside a vacuum to be, as he leaps off the edge of the cliff, air leaving his lungs so that all he is capable of saying is 'oh', which seems a little unfair given the magnitude of the orgasm he's in the middle of. It goes on forever, semen lurching onto John's jumper over and over before he sags back down into the leather, looking at John who is now concentrating so hard on his own erection that his eyes are shut and his head bowed. Sherlock sits up, wiping the mess off his hand down the front of John's already ruined jumper. 

“Did you listen, John? Through the door before you came in?” It's a tiny movement, but Sherlock catches the nod. “Could you hear me, touching myself?”

“You, ah, fuck, I heard you moaning. Your fucking voice.” John's hand is speeding up now, twisting and squeezing slightly at the top end of every stroke, his thighs are shaking with the effort to stay kneeling upright. Sherlock rearranges himself, turns John towards the back of the sofa but doesn't touch him. 

“You like listening to my voice, do you John?” Another nod, a huff of breath which catches on the frayed edge of piece of wallpaper, making it dance slightly to the tune of John's erratic breath. “Do you like watching me John? Do you like seeing me out of control?” Nod. “Do you like making me lose control?” Nod. His head touches the wall, jaw slack. “John I want you to come for me now.” John speeds up another notch. “Please, John.” And that does it. 

“Holy, shitting Fuck.” John bucks against the back of the settee, swearing a little more before sliding sideways to lie, socks and vest still on, against the armrest. “Christ, Sherlock.” 

There is a minutes silence in the room, the noise of their ragged breathing drowning out even the ticking clock, before Sherlock brusquely makes to move.

“Anyway, I suppose I had better give Lestrade a call. See if anything came of that leg in the Thames.” He gets up, pulling his trousers back up and walking towards the kitchen. John stares after him. 

“Yes. Yes, I suppose you better had...”


End file.
